


The Luphomoid's Guide to Baggage Control

by grison



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Awkward in-law conversations, Communication Failure, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, Nebula and Kraglin are terrible space bros, Queer Gen, Siblings, really all the family issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grison/pseuds/grison
Summary: Kraglin's having a minor crisis. Gamora would like it if people would actually talk about their feelings. Yondu wants to know what the hell happened when he was dealing with that post-spacing pneumonia.Nebula just wants her goddamn ship back.





	1. Nebula

Nebula isn't quite sure how her life has come to this, or why she hasn't taken steps to fix the... problem currently leaking all over her ship.

 

She'd known she couldn't stay near Gamora and her " _Guardians_ " for too long. She might have finally beaten Gamora and savored her precious victory, but her wounds were too old and too raw to tolerate Gamora's presence for long without snapping and trying to kill her again. Ideally the murder attempt would come when she'd expect it, so Nebula could beat her _again_ , sweetly vindicated by her own skills, and make Gamora acknowledge her _properly_ _—_ but she's not certain what she'd do with that victory now, anymore. And Nebula isn't sure she wants to find out so soon.

 

Besides, she's got a job to do. Thanos is still out there, and her feelings for him aren't anything like as confusing or complex as the ones she presses down whenever she contemplates Gamora. The swell of single-minded, bitter hatred is comfortingly familiar, and she wistfully contemplates the lead she's sure she's found on one of the Infinity Stones he seeks. If she could secure one, his obsessive drive would make it the perfect bait for a trap...  


She catches herself. There's a more pressing issue at hand, and it's still making a mess of the equipment store room.  


Again.  


She steps into the room and is met with a pair of startled, red-rimmed eyes. "Kraglin. Your leaking will make the parts rust. Make it stop or go elsewhere."  


Kraglin stiffens and clearly tries, immediately, to pause and collect himself, or at least to pretend as if nothing is wrong. “I—yes. I’ll—be working on the navigational comm systems if you need me.” He makes his escape with alacrity, clutching his tattered dignity with more stubbornness than success.  


Nebula watches him go, eyes narrowed. What on earth is she going to do about this thing? She briefly contemplates killing him, but rejects the possibility: she suspects that such a thing would have ramifications, given his roundabout ties to Gamora’s pet Terran. And… such a thing, she decides, is not to be contemplated further. A non-lethal solution, she decides.  


Nebula is not practiced at non-lethal solutions. She is, however, quite good at learning on the fly.

 

* * *

 

Her first stealthy attempt to make the weeping stop is to distract the weedy little man with something she often uses when her own emotions threaten to overwhelm her and divert her from her purpose. She has heard that a smallish Chitauri garrison on the very edges of Xandarian space might have some tangentially useful information about the location of the Space Infinity Gem. That, she thinks, will do nicely indeed.

 

Confusingly, however, retaking the garrison does not appear to distract or cheer up her erstwhile shadow. Oh, he’s competent enough, using blasters and knives to carve through the unfortunate Chitauri guards that block Nebula’s access to their data terminals. But once the actual killing is done, he goes quiet, stares into the poorly-buffed mirror of some minion’s shattered helmet, and doesn’t move for so long that she might have confused him for a statue if she hadn’t seen his transfixed, shallow breathing.

 

She jostles him hard as she sweeps by, angry at the total _uselessness_ of the Chitauri data despite herself. It seems to snap him out of his daze, at least; he starts and guiltily scurries after her, blasters at his side and knives hastily wiped clean on some officers’ cloak. _Stupid affectations_ , Nebula thinks to herself, _all they do is provide a convenient handhold and mark out the most effective initial targets._ She slams the door to her quarters open and stalks inside, resolutely not sulking at this latest failure to keep her unwanted shadow from taking up time and resources with his precious _emotions_.

 

It isn’t even as if his precious Centaurian captain is even _dead_ , which confuses her further. Oh, she’d certainly believed he would die even as Kraglin had operated the tractor beam that brought Gamora’s Terran in, clutching the Centaurian and wailing most unpleasantly. Judging by the comm that the fox seemed to have immediately sent angrily denouncing something to do with the politics of the Ravager clans, she hadn’t been only one fooled into astonishment when the Centaurian took a slow, rattling breath, violently expelled the contents of his stomach, and then started coughing uncontrollably through his own vomit.

 

Nebula had left then, bored and vaguely disgusted with the overwrought weeping and effusively furious swearing emanating from Gamora’s pet. It had only been marginally creative, and once he had begun to repeat himself she’d lost all interest in the proceedings and had stalked off in the direction of the stores. She’d needed to plan her next sortie on Thanos’ power anyway, and that had meant finding a new ship to host her after Gamora had ( _dammit)_ ripped all the weaponry off of her previous vessel and damaged the structural integrity besides. She always _had_ insisted on having the last word.

 

Briefly, Nebula had considered the merits of just stealing the vacuum respiration disc that the Terran had thrown viciously aside upon entering atmosphere and going looking for a suitable vessel to steal. Perhaps a few boot thrusters, to make it easier to get to an inhabited world… but then, they had been out in space so remote that even she prefers to rely on the improved fuel supply and jump capacity of a sturdy craft. Regretfully she had decided that she would need to rely on Gamora’s resources, much as it pained her, until she could get close enough to Xandarian space again to use one of her untraceable accounts to replace her ship.

 

She had begun inventorying the contents of the _Eclector’s_ stores with brisk efficiency, working out what she would need to take in order to continue her quest for a way to properly and satisfactorily destroy Thanos. She had savored the image of his severed head lying bleeding in the sand, his eyes popping like over-ripe Krylorian _rhalek_ fruit between her fingers while she dug gleeful fingers into the bone to rip his own brains from his skull. As she worked, she had lost herself in dreaming of the future she had known she would achieve.

 

She’d been so caught up in her ruminations that she’d barely noticed the strange, awkward Ravager before he had blindly crashed into her on his own solitary journey through the _Eclector’s_ bowels. She’d snarled and cuffed him, unwilling to allow anyone to touch her—touches were threats, in her experience—and certainly unwilling to tolerate the disrespect and lack of fear implied by his intrusion into her personal space.

 

He had stared at her, eyes wide and frozen, his thin, rabbity chest hyperventilating with some unfathomable emotion as he registered her presence and his transgression. Desperately, he’d swallowed, apparently unable to summon words, before rasping out “Sorry, miss. Didn’t see y’there. Won’ run into you again.”

 

Nebula had regarded him with irritation. “Next time,” she informed him, “I will take my vengeance in flesh, not words.” This hadn’t seemed to have the desired effect; he had seemed to barely notice her threats through whatever roiling cataclysm of emotions had paralyzed him. Nebula was not _used_ to being ignored, and she had growled her irritation and shoved him. “Did you understand me?”

 

Apparently the growl had worked, because he had started and yelped “Yes’m.” And then he had kept staring at her, apparently lost in thought. It had been… unnerving. Eventually, for lack of a better idea of how to respond, she had turned back to her inventory work. She had been planning for some time when he blurted out “When you leave this vessel, miss, will y’take me with you?” She had stared, devoid of any sensible response to such an insensible question. He rallied under her gaze, and said “You said you were goin’ after Thanos, right? That’s a hell of a target you’re aimin’ at.”

 

She had bristled. “I can do it. I am strong enough and clever enough, and I will _not_ be denied.”

 

He had shrugged, and said “Don’ doubt it. But you’ll need someone to watch yer back, won’t you? And I got experience. I—I swear I won’t take up no room or anything.” His eyes had been hopeful and tensely fixed on hers.

 

She’d glared back. “Why do you want to come?”

 

He had flinched, as if struck. “Don’ deserve to stay, do I? Nearly got him killed, _did_ get everyone else killed, only cap’n an’ Quill left now of the whole faction and that’s _if_ he survives the decompression sickness and Ogord knows what else sets in. No one needs me skulkin’ around remindin’ them of what I did. Better to just leave now, save ‘em the trouble.” He had seemed to wince again at his words, and had hastily added “I know better than t’speak up again like that now, ma’am. Won’ happen again—you’ll see, I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You’d barely even know I’m here.”

 

At the desperation in his colorless eyes, she’d felt a sudden flicker of some odd emotion, something she found impossible to set words to. “All right,” she’d growled, “but I expect you to earn your keep and then some. I don’t have time for dead weight.”

 

Impossibly, from somewhere he’d summoned a watery grin. “Ma’am, I know where we keep all the emergency craft _and_ all the best quarters for lootin’. You’ll see. I’ll be back in two clicks.” He’d vanished, then, and reappeared with the location of a suitable M-ship, a competent set of backup stores and repair parts for it, and a thorough packing list for his own nutritional needs. She’d been vaguely impressed at the time, and had thought he might make a worthwhile asset after all.

  
How could she have been so _wrong?_


	2. Gamora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to remove cases of paragraph repetition because AO3 does _not_ like my formatting style. Oops. Better be more careful about that next time; I think I got them all, but if you spot any others please let me know!

 

Gamora awakens from Rocket’s paralytic assault in a state of utter _fury_ leavened by overwhelming panic. _Where is Peter?!_ She cannot _believe_ that furry, wretched _vermin_ would _dare_ to prevent her from going back for him—she scrambles to her feet, muscles spasming, and scrambles as quickly as she can in the direction of the bridge so she can _wrest control from these traitors_ and go _back_ _—_ but she’s astonished, shaky with adrenaline, to see two huddled bodies on the viewfield screen as Kraglin grimly pulls the _Eclector_ in.

 

In the privacy of her own mind, she swears an oath that she hasn’t thought about since the last of her people fell and left her alone in the universe. To be fair, she hasn’t had much use for either requests or thanks in a long, long time. Gamora stares, transfixed with painful hope, as Kraglin pulls in the two bodies—one dull and blue, and one improbably shining with the pale blue lights of a portable spacesuit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The moment the airlock decompresses, Rocket (of all people!) is on life support, darting under Peter (who won’t stop _screaming_ but is mercifully, so mercifully, _alive_ ) to check Yondu’s iced-over corpse for a pulse. There’s some hope—against all odds, they might have got to him in time; she doesn’t _think_ she was out for that long before she clawed her way back to consciousness. She has some practice with reckoning, after all.

 

Gamora has bigger priorities. Peter is clearly beside himself, more desperate than she has ever seen him, and he doesn’t even seem to be tracking well enough through the liquid welling out of his eyes to figure out how to remove himself from the spacesuit. His flailing is well-intentioned in its panic, but it’s getting in Rocket’s way.

 

She finds herself stumbling quickly towards him to wrap her arms around him and haul him away from Yondu’s body for a moment, out of the way of Rocket’s efficient, searching movements. It’s harder than she would have expected, for all her strength—he is everywhere at once, and his bulk is awkward to maneuver, and he seems to be all limbs and shouting and desperation—but she manages to drag him to a corner across the room, remove his suit, and hold him in place long enough to slap him once, harshly, across the face.

 

This is only, of course, so he will startle back into control of his emotions and be once again the Peter she knows, the one who can handle a crisis with irrelevant bickering and absurdly obscure Terran “best-selling incubation” references without batting an eye. She needs that Peter back on a level she doesn’t care to examine too closely at the moment.

 

Behind her, she hears a rattling breath. It does not sound like it could be produced by Rocket, and her impression is confirmed by the way Peter abruptly goes slack in her arms, suddenly stunned gutless. _Good_ , she thinks absently, and watches Peter carefully for a moment in case he might collapse under her grip.

 

Then Rocket yowls “Oh, _disgusting_!” as Yondu apparently vomits all over him, and she turns her head to look. Yondu is covered in his own sick, which is perhaps predictably _astonishingly_ foul, and has immediately started coughing. Peter scrambles for the oxygen unit with its emergency mask, at this point, drilled as well as any of them in protocols of decompression sickness. His hands fumble and shake more than Gamora has ever seen, but he helps get the mask over Yondu’s face quickly enough and then gets a shoulder under the old Centaurian and starts dragging him to the medbay, oxygen unit trailing along behind him.

 

Gamora huffs and scrambles after him—he’s still cold himself, _moron_ , and if he trips and falls she won’t be responsible for the consequences—and tries not to think too hard about the relief flooding her own shaking hands. She ducks under Yondu’s other shoulder and tries to bear as much of his weight as Peter will let her. Behind her, Mantis scuttles to follow, grabbing the oxygen unit and making sure it doesn’t bang into the wall or tug the mask off Yondu’s grey-mottled face. She’s careful not to touch any of the three of them. Good. She’s glad Drax got the weird little empath here safe; for all she’d helped that monster Ego kill his children (the cairns of small bones flash suddenly behind her eyelids; she blinks) Mantis hadn’t had any more control over the situation than Peter had.

 

She winces. _I should never have pushed him to follow Ego_ , she tells herself for the third time in three hours. _I_ _’m such a fool._ Still, idle thoughts never filled anyone’s larder, as her mother would have said, and she shoves the guilt aside again. There will be time to be guilty later.

 

Thank all the dead gods, there will be time.

 

Peter immediately sets up a terrifyingly obsessive vigil at Yondu’s bedside. Once Gamora has reassured herself that he is as healthy as he was when she saw him last, suffering relatively minor effects from his own journey into the black, she doesn’t care to stay. He doesn’t seem to want to say anything, and he is uncharacteristically somber. She can’t fault him for it; she imagines he doesn’t much want her company right now in any case.

  
Exhausted as she has not been since Xandar, she stumbles to the nearest room she can find with a soft space and falls face-first onto it. Mantis yelps something about needing to help Drax and flees the room, which is more satisfying than it probably should be; Gamora is much too tired to care. Sleep takes her almost immediately, and she does not ( _small mercies_ , she thinks) dream.

 

* * *

 

 

Gamora opens her eyes blearily and recoils from the mysterious stain in front of her nose. She’s never had any trouble remembering who she is and why she’s there upon awakening, and she’s lucky; it’s rescued her more than once in the field. Her hair is a _mess_ and every muscle and bone in her body is reminding her that survival carries a price of pain. She realizes suddenly that she has only awakened because hunger pangs are hitting her harder than they have since she was a small child, one among many in the dormitories that housed Thanos’ stolen children; she needs to find something to eat and she needs to find it soon.  


_Where do these people keep the mess, anyway_?  


Peter would know. Her desire to check in on him and verify that he still lives and breathes is nothing; she simply needs directions from him, and she _does_ know where he was last and where he almost certainly still is. She traces her steps back to the medbay, trying to finger-comb the worst of the tangles out of her hair as she goes.  


In the medbay, Peter seems to have found and hauled some sort of cushy, one-armed couch thing to the bay where Yondu has been set up to recuperate. That’s something, anyway. He’s passed out on top of it, by all appearances dead to the world, one arm draped uncomfortably off the side and the other hand resting on his belly, limp with exhaustion. He’s still wearing his boots and his leathers. Gamora is torn: she wants to talk to him, but she wants even less to interrupt his rest.  


As she considers, a weak, raspy voice breaks the silence. “Got somethin’ to see, girlie?” Then it descends into a fit of coughing. She turns to inspect this strange Centaurian, whose relationship with Peter she barely understands. Peter’s taken the time to get his clothes off, cut them off most likely, and then hooked him up to one of the medibots for nanite repair and diagnosis.  


Gamora had thought that Yondu was something like a smaller version of Thanos; perhaps less cruel to his “child” than the Titan had been to his stolen brood, but nevertheless concerned with Peter only for the skills and labor he might wrest from the boy. Peter had clearly been wistful and missing him when Yondu walked away, whistling and tossing the fake orb in his hands, and he had called Yondu and the Ravagers “closest thing I have to family” then. She had assumed that this was merely the ambivalent, twisted affection for the familiar that she bore ( _bears_ ) for the people present during her youth. No healthy bond, that, not from a “parent” who threatened so easily to kill a child.  


Perhaps not.  


The coughing ceases enough for Yondu to growl “D’you _like_ what you see, then? ‘Cause yer staring at it awful hard.” He is glaring, clearly weak as a kitten, and with a start Gamora realizes she _has_ been staring. “I… no. I was merely curious to meet someone my crewmate views with such high esteem.”  


Yondu catches his breath, visibly exhausted. “Keep looking, honey; he don’ view _me_ in any such light.” Evidently the conversation has drained him, because he is abruptly asleep, his jaw slack and his head lolling to the side. She wonders how much even that brief conversation had taken out of him. She winces and glances at Peter. He appears to be dead to the world, head lolling off the edge of his own makeshift bed.  


Abruptly she decides that she has more pressing concerns than food, and she stalks off to be alone so that she can think in peace. _I may_ , she thinks, _have made errors in judgment about more than one person tonight._ Gamora has trained for over half her life to hold her unaffected countenance still no matter how much pain, rage, boredom, exhaustion, or grief she might be inwardly feeling; she knows how to set these emotions aside the moment they are no longer useful fuel for her goals. Her facial control is perfect, and her control over her body no less so.  


It is vexing to realize that this training does not prepare oneself for the new and unwelcome sensation of pure _shame_ that pulses in waves across her mind as she contemplates. Finally she unfolds her legs (still, she winces, _sore_ , alongside every other muscle in her body) and goes to find Nebula.

 

* * *

 

 

Two tours of the _Eclector_ later, Nebula is still nowhere to be found. Gamora _has_ successfully located what appears to have been an auxiliary mess hall and is thoughtfully gnawing on a qilpatil loaf as she walks; she has also confirmed that she probably has seen all the rooms the ship boasts, found and directed Drax to the apparent toilet facilities (predictably, given Peter’s habits, a horrifying experience she will have to plug her nose to use when her own bladder next complains), and located Rocket scolding Groot for eating some sort of insect creature. Again.

 

She immediately tells him that if he _ever_ interferes with her in battle again, she will remove what passes for his reproductive system by reaching down his throat to clutch his gonads from within, ripping the whole out via his intestines, and then that she will strangle him with whatever intestinal remnants she can grasp that are sufficiently long to do so. Disturbingly, he simply glares back, rolls his eyes theatrically, and whines something drenched in over-acted sarcasm about “thanks for saving my life, Rocket, and thanks for preventing me from going on an _entirely pointless_ suicide mission,” before noticing that Groot is dangerously close to capturing (and eating) another stray beetle.  


Gamora isn’t sure why he bothers. Insects are excellent sources of protein, and she recognizes that the species Groot is closing in on is not toxic. Still, Rocket has always had strange hangups about the kind of food he will deign to consume, and she supposes he intends to instill them in Groot. Irritably, she keeps moving—Nebula’s probably still around here _somewhere_ , right? Where would she have found a functioning ship to abscond with?  


Eventually she winds up back at the med bay, where Peter has apparently awakened, fetched himself and Yondu food, and collected Mantis. Yondu does not appear to have awoken since she had intruded, but Peter and Mantis are chatting amiably enough as Peter slurps on a can of mrk’sa stew and Mantis nibbles something unidentifiable that smells like loquax claws.

 

Unexpectedly, Gamora feels her hackles rise with irritation; why, she isn’t entirely sure. It makes no sense: _Mantis is not a threat in any way_ , she reminds herself, and besides the strange little empath has been falling over herself to be helpful in any way she can since confessing Ego’s real purpose. _Pity she hasn_ _’t any_ real _talents to contribute,_ Gamora internally snipes before she forcibly shakes off the irritation and gets herself under control.

 

“Peter,” she interrupts, “Have you seen Nebula?”

 

Peter blinks up at her, confused and concerned and unbearably exhausted despite himself. She itches to restore his good humor, and then reflexively shoves that inane desire into the dusty corner of her mind where she isolates all such impulses. “Uh. No, don’t think so. I figured she was with you?”

 

Gamora shakes her head. “No, I have not seen her since I left you here to sleep.”

 

Peter frowns, biting his lips. “Well. Shit. That’s not good. Do you think she’s still on-ship?”

 

“Where else would she be? I have not seen any smaller vessels aboard this one, and I have _looked_. No one else has seen her, either.”

 

“Aw, flark. Uh. Yondu’s been here, but have y’asked Kraglin? He knows this ship better than anyone else, and he said something about having split off the third quadrant when I talked to him after we got Yondu settled. But he said he had to take a whiz awhile back and I haven’t seen him since. I’d tell you to go check the M-ship hangars, see if one of them is missing, but I’m pretty sure that bit’s been exploded.”

 

Gamora considers this. “I have not seen him anywhere, and I have thus far located all of our remaining companions. Do you have his comm signal?”

 

A hoarse voice interrupts Peter before he can begin to respond. “Where’s Kraglin now?” Yondu slurs, forcing out the words through lungs that seem disinclined to cooperate. Peter glares at him. “Stop _talking,_ I _told you_ , you’re just gonna damage your lungs _worse_ that way, or d’you _want_ to come down with pneumonia for the next month?”

 

Unabashed, Yondu glares back. “Shu’up, boy, an’ tell me why I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my first mate since we got back on my damn ship. Where’s he hidin’?” The tone in his voice makes it clear that even if he can barely speak or breathe through his oxygen mask, let alone whistle, he _will_ find a way to make the Guardians regret ignoring him. Peter glares at him and then sighs, heaving himself up to look.

 

When they finally trace the location of Kraglin’s comm to one of the few tiny auxiliary M-ship hangars left intact on the Quadrant, they find it utterly abandoned. The hangar is empty, and Kraglin himself is nowhere to be seen. The comm sits, neatly abandoned, on a shelf near the airlock controls. Next to it is a small black rectangular device with strange protruding wires and a shiny frog doll that appears to be made of glass and wire. Peter shrugs and grabs these, along with the lonely comm unit, as they turn and go back to tell Yondu that Kraglin has apparently left the ship entirely. 

 

Gamora considers as she walks. It might be more efficient, then, to send Nebula a message of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, hell. I meant to get this out a little earlier--this chapter has in fact been nearly completely written since I posted the first one! It's just that I had a rather involved nonfiction piece that I got sucked into for a solid week there, and then it went completely viral, and that has had me more than slightly distracted for a good long time. I hope future updates will be more reliable! I have quite a bit of plotting down, so it'll just be a matter of writing properly. 
> 
> I am sorry for abruptly stopping responding to comments, too! I just... got sucked into that other project, and for a while there it pretty well ate my entire free time. Ich. 
> 
> (That's also the reason for the name change--the piece in question was written under my legal name, but it was largely organized under my previous handle, which I've had for ten years. I didn't particularly want to take the risk of MRA assholes tracking me down, so I've switched handles for the moment.
> 
> Ah--a grison, Galacticis vittata, is something like a pine marten and something like a honey badger. It lives in Central and South America, and it seemed like the sort of name that wouldn't be likely to be taken. I've always liked the big mustelids, so Grison I shall be.)


	3. Nebula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nebula tries other methods of distracting her unfortunate crewmate.

Nebula had faintly hoped that as Kraglin got farther and farther from the remains of his crew and Gamora’s pet, he might recover an emotional equilibrium on his own. Not, of course, that she particularly cares what he chooses to do with his time, but the weeping and staring into space is only intensifying as days pass. It is becoming harder and harder to quell her concerns about the likelihood that Kraglin’s emotional functioning might interfere with the quality of his work aboard the nameless ship.

 

Admittedly, she hasn’t seen much evidence of deteriorating work quality thus far. Indeed, she is beginning to become alarmed at the way that repairs keep appearing throughout the ship, previously rusty or damaged parts repaired and shined as if by magic. It would be like living with an _exceedingly_ helpful ghost if she hadn’t continued taking time to observe Kraglin on the security feeds.

 

She would have imagined, before acquiring an erstwhile crewmate, that the combination of top-notch work without having to actually interact or engage with anyone should have been an ideal scenario for her. In reality, the experience feels less luxurious than it feels… Nebula attempts to locate a more appropriate word, but is finally forced to settle for describing the feeling as _creepy_. She is used to evidence of sapient presence attempting to hide from her meaning ‘potential threat,’ and she has a difficult time convincing her hindbrain that it should relax under the circumstances.

 

Therefore, obviously, the only sensible option remaining is to intervene in the source of the lurking and moping behaviors. Nebula, used to adapting to the unforeseen, devises several potential solutions to the issue. The mission to extract the Chitauri intelligence had not had the desired effect on Kraglin’s morale, but perhaps the issue is simply that the enemies she had selected were not personally gratifying enough to hearten Kraglin himself. She briefly considers offering to return to Gamora’s ship to slay the Centaurian ex-captain, who appears to be a major source of Kraglin’s emotional turmoil. She decides that the offer might be unwise, however: Gamora’s pet had seemed very attached, and she’s not entirely certain she’s ready to face her sister again yet.

 

A glance at the local electromagnetic data readouts catches her interest. There is a smallish cargo ship within range, she sees, probably relaying stolen goods to a fence or a storage cache—because to her delight, its radio signal and colors bear the distinctive marks of the Irazu Ravager faction.

 

For her purposes, this seems perfect. After all, hadn’t Thanos’ endlessly tedious lessons on political allegiances mentioned a single outlawed Ravager faction harried and occasionally attacked by the other ninety-nine? And hadn’t Kraglin’s old crew worn the sigils and red leathers she remembers that outlaw faction using? Surely he must welcome the chance to burn some of his cloying sorrow in combat with an actual _personal_ enemy, then. After all, what could be more gratifying than that?

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Kraglin is not remotely as interested in taking the Irazu Ravager prey as Nebula had envisioned. He appears readily enough when she comms his latest haunt in the bowels of the engineering access and demands his presence for a combat mission, but he stops in his tracks upon seeing the Irazu transport on the viewscreens. She blinks at him.

 

He stares at her right back, suddenly tense in a way she isn't sure how to read. When he speaks, there isn't a trace of the diffidence or exhausted grief that have dogged his words since they left Gamora's crew.

 

"That ship our target?"

 

"Do you see any others?"

 

The confirmation does not appear to appease him. If anything, he stiffens further, intensifying his stare. "Y'know who _owns_ that ship?"

 

Nebula resists the urge to squirm like a crecheling who has disappointed an elder matriarch. It's an irritating reaction: after all, hadn't she expressly chosen this target for its appeal to Kraglin's old clan enemies? "The vessel bears the colors of the Ravager faction currently commanded by Chiriqi Irazu," she grates out.

 

Kraglin huffs an angry breath of air before speaking again, now quivering in what Nebula is belatedly almost certain is offended rage. "Do I just _look_ like an oathbreaking scumlicker to you, or is there something I said that implies that I get my rocks off from sticking knives in people's backs? Huh? Whatever it is gave you that impression, lady, it's more full of shit than a constipated _bilgesnipe_."

 

Nebula blinks, suddenly obscurely grateful that her whiskers had been among the first things Thanos had had surgically removed after abducting her. It would have been impossible to keep them from betraying her emotions by flattening themselves against her cheeks in _astonished-appeasement_ otherwise; she can already feel the long atrophied muscles clenching in her lips.

 

“I was under the impression that the Udonta faction had been at odds with the remaining Ravager factions for some time. How then does taking an Irazu prize qualify as oathbreaking?”

 

Kraglin looks at her, eyes narrowed in a deeply unpleasant mixture of anger, frustration, and bemusement. “Yeah. They might be dicks to _us_ , but that’s Ravager business. It’s not for outsiders to get involved with, and you ain’t exactly wearing yourself any leathers now. We don’t _steal from each other._ We got a Code, and it’s _important_. Now, if you don’t got anything better for me to do, I’m going to go fix the dorsolateral thrusters again. There’s no damn parts, so I’m working on solder and hope to keep things functional.” He turns on his heel, not waiting for her to respond, and stalks off toward the engineering bays. His fury is palpable with every step.

 

Well. That could have gone better.

 

Flark.

 

* * *

 

Nebula’s foul mood does not improve upon returning to her information nets, either. There is a comm message pulsating in her inbox, addressed to an alias that she has not used in decades, hailing from the alias Gamora had used on that long-ago mission. There is only one person who could be hailing her, and whatever the message says, Nebula instinctively feels that she is unlikely to enjoy its content. Still, she is not afraid of a simple message, so she grits her teeth and opens it.

 

_Nebula:_

 

_I meant to say this before you left, but I did not have the chance._

 

 _I was a child, like you. I was concerned with staying alive until the next day, every day. And I never considered what Thanos was doing to you. I_ _’m trying to make it right. There are little girls like you across the universe who are in danger. You can—if you ever want to join us and help them, the offer is open._

 

 _My doors are always open to you. My hearth will always hold a meal for you. My home will always hold a bed for you. We cannot go back, but perhaps_ _… perhaps one day we might move forward?_

 

It’s the apology Nebula has craved for decades. She has fantasized about this moment for longer than she cares to remember, nearly as often as she has fantasized about defeating Gamora in open combat and wresting it from her by force. It is therefore disconcerting that her emotions have dissolved into a roiling mass of rage and less identifiable things _:_ how _dare_ she apologize? How dare Gamora think that a few _words_ can absolve her of decades of neglect? How dare she change the game so Nebula can no longer win?

 

Nebula stares at the message, absolutely not quaking with emotions she refuses to name. She fleetingly considers responding, but her fingers fall before her when she reaches for the keys. Eventually she gives up.

 

Somewhere in the bowels of the engineering bay, she hears a loud bang on a pipe, followed by copious swearing.

 

She considers for a moment. Her informational nets have not been kind enough to yield her any new potential information that might help her to kill Thanos, which leaves her at loose ends until her informants fetch her new findings. That leaves only two avenues of distraction available to her, and either way, she’ll need Kraglin out of the way; might as well see if she can find a permanent fix for the temper, too.

 

Well. May as well kill two chilotleca with one trap as one. Nebula steps over to the nav panel on the ship’s autopilot and keys in a very particular set of coordinates.

 

* * *

 

Upon landing her ship, Nebula comms Kraglin and requests his presence for a shipboard mission. He has apparently gotten over yesterday’s snit about “honor” and “oathbreaking,” at least judging from his quick “Aye, on my way” in response. Good. Nebula wasn’t _worried_ , but this attempt to fix her personnel issues will be much more easily managed if she isn’t trying to manage a sulking crewmate as well as her other planned errands.

 

While she waits, she idly checks the local map of the planetary district in which she has docked her craft, memorizing potential locations for the tasks she has in mind. Once she has Kraglin occupied, she can go on her own hunt through the streets and work her anger off by waiting for some unobservant fool to hassle a small woman walking alone. Usually _someone_ will fall for her bait on a planet this seedy, particularly if she can find a mark so intoxicated that he is incapable of identifying her by sight.

 

First things first, however. She collects Kraglin and sets off for the first stop on her agenda. It caters to males and is reasonably well recommended by the local review services, as far as she can tell. (She assumes that more of the strange phallic symbols sitting alongside the most helpful reviews are an indicator of more quality, not less. It would make more sense if the symbols were actual representations of a species’ genitalia rather than images of tubers intended to be suggestive, but she supposes that the brothel attendants are not there for phalluses themselves.) This establishment should, she thinks firmly, be just the thing.

 

He stalks alongside her commendably well, waiting to see where she intends to lead them without a word of comment while he maintains a position just far enough behind her to adequately cover her back. It’s a pleasing habit, and all the more reason she needs him to stop wedging himself into small crevices in the ship and shaking when he runs out of tasks to throw himself into. With luck, this visit will snap him out of his fixation, and she can go back to focusing her energy on trailing Thanos’ weaknesses.

 

She locates her destination easily enough and strides confidently up to the front door and into the lobby, Kraglin following along beside her. He looks unfazed, so she assumes he knows what she has in mind for this visit and waits for him to make a selection.

 

It takes longer than anticipated. Surely this cannot be a particularly difficult decision; there are only so many models, and even fewer if you take a firm position on whether or not you fancy electrostimulation directly to the genitals. Nebula begins to grow impatient and turns to glare at Kraglin. She realizes with a start of frustration that Kraglin is _not even looking_ at the bots on display; he seems to be dividing his attention between the clientele and Nebula herself. This is _not_ going according to plan.

 

Perhaps he is simply a little slow on the uptake. No matter; Nebula can be supportive. “Have you made your selection yet?”

 

Kraglin whips his head from his observation of the newest customer to stare at her in alarm. “….beggin’ your pardon, ma’am?”

 

Nebula stares at him. “We are in a bot-brothel. The options offered by the establishment are limited, and there is one general form of service on offer here. This establishment caters primarily to males, not females, so logically we cannot be here for my own enjoyment. I was under the impression that visits to these places are one of the primary benefits typically accorded to Ravager crew.”

 

He stares back. Kraglin doesn’t respond for long enough that Nebula, faintly concerned his personal accounts may be somewhat lean after the mutiny, feels compelled to haltingly add: “If units are the problem in question, I would be happy to cover the cost of the visit. My own accounts are reasonably full at present.”

 

Slowly he flushes dark, dark red, starting with the tips of his ears and spreading down beneath the collar of his jumpsuit until his face almost matches the leathers. It is really quite a fascinating reaction, thinks Nebula, who herself bleeds a synthetic blend as dark as pitch these days. Eventually he speaks, in a tone of voice rather higher and more strangled than she is used to hearing. “So… we’re _not_ here to gather intel for a job, then?”

 

She stares at him. “No. Why? Have you encountered any?”

 

“I… no.” He seems to struggle for words. “I—thank you for the offer, but… uuuuuh…” He trails off, apparently lost for words. He rather resembles a mudcarp with his mouth gaping open and closed like that. It’s not an attractive look.

 

Finally he rubs his fingers to his forehead and grimly rubs the deep crease between his eyebrows. “I… Nebula, I’m not—” He looks at her in desperation, apparently attempting to will his thoughts directly into her brain. She finds this aggravating; if she had telepathic abilities, she would not need to use trial and error to fix his broken emotions. She could fix them _directly_ then, which would be most satisfying, being able to just reach out inside a head and—wait, she thinks, was that an attempt at speech?

 

“I did not hear that. Please repeat it in audible tones.”

 

He glares at her, and then grates out “Nebula, I’m not into”—he flails for a moment, waving his hands at the waiting bots—”innies. I’m more’ve an _outies_ kind of guy.”

 

She stares at him. “I did take care to ensue that this establishment was rated specifically compatible for males of your species. What do you mean by ‘innies’?”

 

“I, uh. Females.” He flails his hands a little more under her bemused gaze. “Not all of us are into what _most_ of us are? It’s a big wide galaxy, ma’am, some of us prefer things you won’t find in the wiki entries.”

 

Well. This is vexing information. “Very well. Tell me what your preferences _are_ , and I will find an establishment more effectively tailored to suit them.”

 

He gapes at her some more and then rubs at his forehead again. “I—ma’am, I would really rather not? I—if you’re that determined, we could go to a bar?” He adds, a touch resentfully, “I, for one, could _really_ use a stiff drink.”

 

* * *

 

Nebula hates sad drunks.

 

She supposes she had been relatively lucky in that the bar Kraglin had single-mindedly headed for as soon as he’d escaped the bot-brothel had, far in the dusty back, managed to produce a nanotoxin that when combined with a bit of methanol allowed her to maintain at least _some_ minor intoxicantion level herself.

 

She imagines having to survive this evening completely sober and shudders. At least there’s that, although not even her most persuasive tempations have induced Kraglin to part with the enormous bottle of melior he is currently clutching. There are small fat white insects clustering at the base of the bottle, ostensibly to display the vintage’s potency. Nebula, who prefers to consume intoxicants marketed on their flavor rather than their concentration, eyes it in distaste.

 

Judging by the fervor with which Kraglin is clutching the bottle and chattering to its round watery residents, he disagrees. He doesn’t seem to mind Nebula’s irritable silence, but he has objected strenuously on each of the four previous occasions Nebula has attempted to leave him to his sullen mumbling and embark upon her own wistfully abandoned hunt. She’d abandon him regardless, but she’d prefer he not actually damage himself unattended, and every time she’s tried to unobtrusively plant a tracker on him he keeps locating them and crushing them. She’ll have to devise some more subtle devices—maybe a quiet little chip that doesn’t send any signals of its own, but can be picked up on hacked scanners from Nova surveillance?

 

Oh. He’s noticed the fat little mites are dead. Again. And is beginning to crumple at the face. Again.

 

Nebula briefly contemplates actually intervening this time instead of glaring at the bartender when ze awkwardly suggests that this might be a good time to remove the bottle from Kraglin’s loose-limbed clutches. She is privately beginning to think Kraglin really should be separated from this alcohol before it irreparably damages him, but she is very certain that the management of her crew’s needs is _her own_ business, not zirs.

 

Abruptly she notices that Kraglin has stopped addressing the insects and appears to be speaking to her. _Flark._ “I didn’t hear that. Repeat it.”

 

The odd little Hraxian tilts his head at her and slurs, slightly more loudly, “I _miss_ _‘m._ All righ’? I miss ‘im, and ‘is funny little snores an’ weird skin flakes and all’ve it. Don’ wanna replace’m like nothin’ happened a’ all. Just, jus’ leave well ‘nough alone next time, yeah?”

 

Nebula squints, confused. “Are you referring to captain Udonta?”

 

Kraglin stares blearily back. “Uh. Yeah? Him ‘n’ me, we were tight for _decades_ , y’don’t forget someone like that so quick.”

 

Nebula is abruptly furious. “Why in the name of Moyotl the Goader _not_? You are miserable and it is affecting your ability to do _anything but mope_ , and you tell me now that you do not wish to forget? If you do not wish to end your relationship, why would you _leave_? What does it gain you to sit here in grief over something you have no control over? Why not _do something about it_?”

 

Kraglin’s watery eyes widen further. “Just ‘cause I don’ deserve to _stay_ don’ mean that he don’ deserve to be happy or that I don’ _care about him!_ _”_

 

She cannot handle this. “Then what am I supposed to do with a crewmate who cannot keep from weeping for ten minutes at a time?” She leans into him and grits out, furious, _“I am trying to distract you. Why are you making this so difficult.”_

 

He looks as though he’s been poleaxed. “You’re doin… wha’?”

 

Nebula is disinclined to repeat herself. “I was quite clear. Your emotions are causing you to neglect your self care, and that in turn will affect your ability to perform at the standards you claimed yourself capable of on this ship. Figure out how to deal with it, or _I will_.”

 

Kraglin gapes at her. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. Perhaps she should start tossing food into his mouth while it’s open. He’s been losing weight, and that will impair his combat capabilities significantly, especially given how little he has left to lose. Nebula eyes the little bar dish of salty fried locusts speculatively, contemplating the odds of choking him with a particularly well-aimed sally.

 

Eventually he manages to shut his mouth. “I. We could. We could do somethin’ different? I ain’t been on vacation in a dog’s age, or… hell, I dunno, there’s markets on Illyricum? Somethin’... somethin’ tha’s a _change_ , maybe? I…” He clutches his bottle, then takes a long, long swig. “Honestly, ma’am, if y’just let me deal with it, I will. Jus’ give me time, I promise, I won’t screw up again. Jus’ give me a chance to deal, I’ll figure it out on m’own.” He looks contemplative. “I been doin’ it long enough, I got ways of workin’ it out.”

 

Nebula stares at him, but elects not to comment on this.

 

He tries to stand. “I go’ this, ma’am. Swear.” He thumps his chest twice, staring earnestly into her eyes.

 

Then he gently collapses onto his side into a puddle of something Nebula has been trying not to speculate on, curls into a fetal position, and vomits all over the bar. It’s possibly the most disgusting thing she has ever seen that does not involve previously-internal organs quivering in the dubious light of day.

 

Nebula stares at him for a minute and contemplates leaving him there. He does not appear to be conscious, however, which means her odds of recovering him if she abandons him here seem slim. Having a crew clearly takes much more effort than initially indicated. Heaving a sigh, she lifts him over her shoulder and fervently hopes he’s out of stomach contents to evacuate. The bottle of melior is left in the corner to rot, as it deserves, and she makes towards her ship with a quick, firm pace. The ship will have _showers_. She can dump him into a sonicator until he awakes enough to take care of himself there. Then she can scrub the filthy residue of this place from her body entirely away and come up with a new plan of attack for this thorny problem.

 

Time for a new angle of approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you didn't think Nebula was capable of trying to be friendly _without_ being horrifyingly awkward, did you?


	4. Gamora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Gamora had thought Yondu was difficult to manage when he merely thought Kraglin was missing, it pales next to a Yondu who knows that Kraglin is off ship and nowhere to be found.

If Gamora had thought Yondu was difficult to manage when he merely thought Kraglin was missing, it pales next to a Yondu who _knows_ that Kraglin is off ship and nowhere to be found.

 

Unfortunately, the poor battered _Eclector_ is in no shape to chase after Nebula and Kraglin, and there is only one spaceworthy craft left on board the remaining quadrant of the ship. The tiny scrap of a digging vehicle is clearly intended for emergency or planetside use only. Even if it could fit all the Guardians within its claustrophobic interior, it could never support the network of oxygen monitors, blood filterers, and pressure regulators currently keeping Udonta alive while his lungs get a chance to heal.

 

Not for the first time, Gamora wonders what the hell Nebula had been thinking.

 

The beeping monitors begin to herald another return to consciousness, and Gamora braces herself. Next to her, she sees Peter do the same. He looks almost as worn down and haggard as Yondu himself, and she is displeased at the permanent dark circles and shaking hands that have become hallmarks of his condition over the past few days. Yondu is getting worse, and Peter knows it.

 

Speaking of, the old man’s blue eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes so bloodshot they look more purple than red. He immediately rasps a demand to know where Kraglin is, and whether they’ve had contact with him. It’s not a good sign—the question has been a constant demand, but his ability to remember the actual answer has deteriorated significantly.

 

“He’s gone with Nebula, Yondu, now would you please _quit talking?_ ” Peter begs. He’s desperate enough to have stopped yelling, and Gamora hates it. He is begging, and begging, and still Udonta only gasps and growls and demands to know where Kraglin is. Neither of them can breathe, and Udonta keeps finding himself out of breath and panicking. It is not _useful_.

 

She wishes she knew whether Nebula _had_ taken Obfonteri. Rocket is certain that she has, but Peter has privately expressed doubts on the matter to her, and Drax seems to think the entire concept is silly. The question is not helpful, in any case.

 

Gamora has had enough of this. Consciousness is clearly only going to allow Udonta to drive himself back into the early grave he’d tried to crawl into head-first. They might not have any sedatives on hand capable of bringing down a Centaurian so that he will rest, but—this is _enough,_ and something needs to change now before _both_ of them kill themselves instead of calming down and recuperating.

 

She turns on her heel and marches towards the best solution she can think of.

 

* * *

 

Conveniently, Mantis has been spending the bulk of her time attempting to be useful by cleaning the mess infesting the _Eclector_ , or at least those parts of it more easily tackled by a small and inexperienced woman armed only with water, a few liters of rotgut whiskey and suspiciously vinegary wine that Gamora had had to confiscate from Rocket before repurposing them as cleaning solvent, and some dubiously stained and queasily appropriated rags. Drax has been clearing those corpses left on the remaining Quadrant by Yondu’s triumphant acquisition of the new fin, but he’s offered to help Mantis some when he’s done or when she has a task that particularly needs a bit of muscle.

 

Mantis’ self-appointed goal makes her easy to find, because as yet her week’s worth of toil has focused entirely on the toilet and shower facilities closest to the mess. Gamora therefore knows precisely where to find her as she strides in. “Mantis. I have a task that needs you. Go tranquilize Yondu before he hurts himself.”

 

She isn’t expecting Mantis to turn from her attempts to scrub years of rust from behind a toilet and bristle up at her. “Why? Has he asked for me?”

 

“He has not asked for anyone but Obfonteri. And Obfonteri isn’t _here._ ”

 

Mantis looks, if anything, even angrier. “Then why would you ask me to use my powers to make him sleep? Do you think I am a tool, or that he does not deserve to choose whether he sleeps or wakes?”

 

She throws her hands up in the air. “What do you want out of me? I try to follow your rules, that I am not to touch anyone at all unless invited or tell people what I see, but the instant—the _instant_ —it is convenient to you, I am to drop all of these rules to make anyone sleep you choose? Peter kept telling me that you are _different_ here. I do not see it. How do I avoid participating in, in another _slaughter_ like Ego’s, when I cannot figure out what the rules are aside from my masters’ convenience?” Mantis’ huge eyes are welling up with overwhelmed sadness or anger—Gamora is genuinely not sure which it is—and she is trembling with emotion as she stares fiercely up at Gamora.

 

For her part, Gamora is more than a touch taken aback. “I suppose,” she says thoughtfully, “that the difference is that Yondu will only continue to hurt himself if he remains conscious, and that he is not currently in his right mind. And allowing him to refuse to heal until he pines into an early grave will only cause Peter more distress—and probably Obfonteri, wherever he is.”

 

Mantis scowls. “Then why would he not ask me to help him, if he needs help so badly?”

 

“I suppose that he would say that he does not need help, he needs us to hunt down my sister so that he can recover his lost crewmate.” Gamora has been trying to avoid thinking about this. She hopes that Yondu is wrong, but she cannot be certain—after all, Nebula has done crueler things before, when they were children together in the service of Thanos. And Nebula has not responded to her missive, so what does she think of It? Does she intend to answer it at all? Has she even seen it?

 

She realizes she has paused for several seconds and that Mantis is tilting her head from one side to another, fiercely intent. Gamora adds, “Even if we wanted to track them down, until we finish repairing and refueling the _Eclector_ there is nothing we can do to move fast enough to prevent her simply outrunning us. So his demands are not possible to meet, and in the meantime he is only panicking himself into the grave before he has finished fully escaping the last one.”

 

Mantis stands stiffly. “All right. I will go and speak with him, and I will see what can be done.”

 

* * *

 

Yondu is, thankfully, unconscious for the moment as Gamora and Mantis approach, but he is beginning to stir. Peter is watching him intently, looking broken and desperate, and possibly considering smothering him into unconsciousness with a pillow again. (It had mostly gotten Peter bitten the first time, which Gamora could have told him if he’d asked _her_.)

 

Mantis approaches and eyes him thoughtfully. “I can touch him without altering anything first, just to feel his emotional state. Maybe I can soothe him that way.” She glances at Peter for confirmation; in the absence of Kraglin, everyone has more or less ceded all decisions about Yondu’s care to Peter’s judgment.

 

Peter looks confused. “What? Why? What are you touching him for?”

 

Mantis stares back at Peter. “Gamora had asked me to use my empathic powers to make Yondu sleep. I had assumed you sent her to ask me. Is this a thing that seems—”, she gropes for words, “acceptable to you?”

 

“Oh.” Peter rubs at the crease that seems to be permanently taking shape between his eyebrows. “I—yeah, probably. He’s only going to get worse and worse if he keeps fighting it like this, and we can’t go after Kraglin like he wants until we can finish repairing the thrusters and the jump drive. Aw, flark, and replenish the fuel pumps, too.” He looks pensive. “If we had drugs that’d work on him, I’d say put him out with those, but most of the med equipment got lost when he jettisoned the Quadrant from the _Eclector_. If you can keep him asleep safely until we can get him better medical treatment, I say we do it.”

 

Mantis nods firmly. “I will try.” She steps forward to Yondu, places her bare hand on his arm, and physically shudders and sucks in a breath. “He is so _afraid_. And angry, too, and guilty. But mostly he is afraid.”

 

Peter manages to look even _more_ exhausted at this. “Yeah, thanks, think I got that by this point. I just—” His voice breaks, and he breathes in and continues. “I just wish he’d bother to listen to me, because _I_ _’m_ afraid, too. I’m scared he’s going to kill himself trying, and it’s gonna be all my _fault._ _”_ He looks more broken than Gamora has ever seen him.

 

Gamora steps over and places her own hands on his shoulders, trying to will _strength_ and _comfort_ into Peter with every touch. “He will heal and live on. His choices are _not your fault_ , Peter.” She breathes. “He is his own person. His actions are his own. Let him have that.”

 

Peter leans back into her hands as he looks Mantis in the eye. “Do you think you _can_ keep him asleep long enough for his lungs to improve, really?”

 

Mantis, her hands still resting on Yondu’s upper arm, frowns back at him. Tension is setting lines around her eyes and mouth, and Gamora realizes absently that keeping Yondu still is exerting a heavy toll on her. “I can try. It will be difficult. He is very angry, and very afraid, and his will is very strong. Drawing power off from those emotions so he will sleep is not impossible, but it will be intensive.”

 

Peter laughs hollowly. “He always did have that, yeah. Okay. I—thanks, Mantis. Let me know if I can do anything to make it easier, yeah?”

 

She assents with a quick nod and closes her eyes, frowning in concentration as she apparently pushes harder at Yondu’s turbulent emotions.

 

Peter leans into Gamora, and she leans back. “Peter,” she murmurs, “it will be okay. Go get some sleep.”

 

He smiles up at her and opens his mouth to speak, which is—of course!—the moment that the comms sound the tell-tale buzz of an incoming message.

 

* * *

 

Peter swears and hits the button to dial the hailing ship through to the comms. Gamora is startled to see that the contacting ship is being piloted by a haggard-looking Stakar Ogord, current head commander of the full host of Ravager factions. She’d thought he had had some kind of vendetta against the Udonta faction, although she’s not sure she had ever heard exactly what it was. Peter, at least, doesn’t seem to recognize Ogord, judging by the confused blankness on his face.

 

The man, stiff and tense, opens his mouth to speak—but not before Peter demands “Who the _hell_ are you?”

 

Gamora reflects that there are definitely some unusual holes in Peter’s knowledge of powerful galactic figures, and resolves that at some point when everyone is more well rested she should probably try to spend some time finding them and filling them in.

 

Stakar, of course, is much less forgiving, and manages to stiffen even more with formality. Gamora’s impressed; she’s seen some straight spines and cold stares in her day, but the cold formality that Stakar is projecting is some of the best she has ever seen. Icily, he grates out “I received a communication from an individual aboard this ship that Yondu Udonta was severely injured and possibly dead. I—” here he pauses for a moment, apparently at a loss. “I wish to pay my respects, and inquire as to how he

 

Peter bristles. “Who the hell are you, and why’re you asking? He never mentioned any jerks like you before, and I’ve been with him for twenty years now, so I think I’d know. Pardon my French, asshole, but this is not my optimal time for dealing with snobby random dickweeds with sticks up their asses coming to speak down their goddamned aristocratic noses at me over him! If you’re hear to gloat or get information, you can fuck off and I hope you rot. If you got a better reason, start talking.”

 

Gamora rather suspects that Stakar is not often on the receiving end of that kind of dressing-down. He’s managed to summon further stiffness from some kind of alien reserve and is standing so still in the comm that he looks like he might shatter if you tapped him. What’s worse, she notices, is that he is beginning to glow faintly. She hopes Peter eases off, or she’s going to have to intervene.

 

Finally, Stakar growls “Who the hell are _you_ to speak to me that way? I’m the Commander of the Ravager fleet, boy. I command the hundred factions of the rival warring captaincies with the barest word, and I speak to the Flames of Ogord to intercede between the ghosts of the spacefaring dead and the souls of the living. I sold my _name_ for the fleet, boy, and you will treat me with basic respect!”

 

Peter sneers viciously back at him. “Yeah? So again, why ain’t _I_ ever heard of you? If you’re such a damn big shot among the Ravagers, why’d I never once see you or hear your name spoken? Like I said, I’ve been with Yondu twenty years, since I was _eight_ , and closest thing I ever heard about bigshots like you was that I wasn’t to approach any other Ravager factions in case I got eaten or worse.”

 

“We don’t— _you_ _’re_ the kid got him exiled, for delivering all those kids to Ego and killin’ em. _You_ _’re_ the one he had when he admitted to breaking the code!” Stakar gazes at Peter very intently over this. He has gone still, like a trained hunting creska stalking a flerchet.

 

“ _I_ got him exiled from your merry bunch of assholes? Sure I did, yeah, that makes total sense, an _eight-year-old_ could make that decision for you. You had nothing to do with it, of flarking course?”

 

“I—”

 

“Look, I don’t care if you’re supposed to be my flarking _Space Pope_ , jackass, he _nearly died_ and now I find out that _I_ _’m_ supposed to be the whole reason for that, and he _raised me_ rather than let that asshole have me and try to use me to _destroy the universe._ And you’re telling me that you hung him out to dry for _that_? I’m trying to _keep_ him alive, and I don’t have time for your bullshit. Far as I’m concerned, asshole, you can suck my butt.”

 

Stakar looks as if he’s been slapped in the face. “He’s not—he’s not dead?” He pauses a moment. “…I’m on my way. I have your coordinates from the transmission.”

 

“Wait, _what_?”

 

Well. This, Gamora thinks, shell-shocked, is going to end just _beautifully_ for everyone. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this one has been rough to struggle with, but it's out now! I suspect the next installment will write up a little bit faster. 
> 
> If you want to talk through more headcanons with me, by the way, I do have a Tumblr now: you can find me at grison-in-space.tumblr.com if you want to hear my happy gushy ramblings about assorted Guardians characters.


	5. Nebula

If the markets of Illyricum contain the solution to Kraglin’s future functionality as a crewmate, Nebula is perfectly prepared to comb through them until she finds it. At least the surroundings are far more congenial than Contraxia’s general air of alcohol, bodily fluids, and snow of dubious quality and cleanliness.

 

Illyricum is, as always, a crowded and bustling mass of merchants from every conceivable corner of this galaxy and several inconceivable ones besides. Kraglin seems disinclined to enter any specific segment of the market to search for whatever he wishes to purchase, insisting that “the point is to _look,_ not to just buy what you came for and leave!”

 

They begin at the section designated for edible products, sniffing through the overwhelming and myriad offerings and tasting the samples proffered by the shouting vendors. With so many sellers hailing from such distant parts, the variety of foods, spices, and intoxicants available is almost bewildering. Nebula wonders why people bother, when nutrient slurry is so much more efficient and can be tailored to the individual and consumed more quickly. Cheaper, too.

 

Kraglin does not appear to be amused when she expresses this opinion, and starts tentatively but implacably badgering her to try this or that sample at the vendors they pass. She eventually caves and tries a few particularly interesting items—a bitter stimulant drink served in a gourd that she quite approves of; a flat stick of some sort of dried, crunchy leaf matter; a cone of roasted tubers, a papery fruit that cracks open to yield the slimy, strangly delicious crunch of seeds inside. Perhaps the effort people spend on these things is not so strange, after all.

 

She does, however, refuse the horrifyingly sticky-sweet fried-dessert concoction that Kraglin enthusiastically tries to make her take a bite of. There are _standards._

 

Nebula is confident that nothing found here will poison her, but Kraglin is less lucky—he bites into one deceptively sweet-tasting orange fruit and immediately begins to vomit until he is curled over, retching. Apparently it’s a common intolerance in his species, which no one noted until the vendor realized He doesn’t seem too bothered by the experiment, but they move on to non-consumable goods quickly enough after that.

 

* * *

 

They give the slavers' market a wide berth.

 

* * *

 

Nebula thinks she might enjoy the junker and salvager ward the best: she spies a number of excellent potential hardware additions to her personal prosthetic designs and a few promising bits of scrap and junk that might be fashioned into useful weapons with a bit of creativity. Kraglin, for his part, dickers and bargains and haggles until they’ve got spares of every potential part they could possibly use for the M-ship, and a few more cannibalizable spare pieces besides.

 

It’s a good thing Illyrican markets are designed for the traveling customer so that all they need to do is pay and leave the ships’ address so that their purchases can be delivered the next day. Nebula has met few others who can match her strength, pound for pound, but even she would probably break under the weight of the purchases they make.

 

* * *

 

Danger arises in the garment district when Kraglin begins to finger a long, flapping rusty-leather coat and look pensively mournful. Distraction appears to be immediately necessary if this venture is to have any chance of success, and Nebula looks wildly about her to find something suitable. Fleetingly, she remembers her first meeting with Kraglin, when he asked if she was going to purchase a hat—and conveniently, there’s a milliner’s stall right across the aisle.

 

And then she spies it, nestled among more ornate, brightly colored offerings like a sleek racing ship in the middle of a pack of round, lush pleasure cruisers. The hat is all harsh angles and glittering curves, perhaps the most appealing head ornament she has ever seen. It is even a practical charcoal grey pricked with hair-thin, silvery stripes at intervals that might theoretically serve to break up its outline in a dark corridor. Nebula suddenly _wants it_ , like she has wanted nothing else that she has seen today, so—well, why not? She steps quickly across the aisle and perches it atop her head before she can talk herself out of the impulse and clears her throat in order to capture Kraglin’s increasingly fixated attention.

 

“Well? Does this qualify as a ‘nice’ hat? I have never worn one before; head-coverings without function were… discouraged when I was a child.”

 

He startles and then turns to look at her, blinking rapidly as he assesses the fashion object. “I… I think that one might be intended for men? It looks nice on you, though.”

 

Nebula rolls her eyes. “Many things are not intended for my sex or species. If I wear it, it is therefore a hat that is suitable for me. The important thing is to work out _whether_ I should wear it.”

 

He grins crookedly at her in that sidelong way of his. “Well, you’ll certainly make all the pretty girls go ‘oooo’ with _that_ one.”

 

Nebula sniffs. The compliment is making her unexpectedly warm, but that doesn’t mean she has fallen so far as let any such sign of weakness show on her face. Nevertheless…

 

Well. She has the credits to spare. The hat is not particularly expensive. It appears to make her ‘look nice.’ Does it need to have a further function?

 

It’s frivolous, but she buys the hat anyway, and they walk on through the stalls with it perched proudly atop her head.

 

* * *

 

They have nearly made it back to the original location of the parked ship, on the edges of the scrapyards and the agricultural sellers, when Kraglin spies _another_ item that makes him go all frozen and misty-eyed: a set of leather harnesses and trappings from a shop that advertises custom work, proudly displaying a dummy mannequin covered in increasingly more elaborate knife and blaster harnesses and holsters. Nebula grits her teeth and looks for another suitable distraction—and then she spots one. There’s a stall with a grizzled older Gneidarian presiding over cages of racing-Orloni advertised as “the fastest in the business,” a wide banner proclaiming the owner’s skill at all manner of pest control (“Orloni, anyorlet, wreka beetles, dropslugs, antechines—you name it, we’ll take care of it! Chemical and biological solutions approved!”), and… the object of Nebula’s sudden interest.

 

It’s a wide box with low sides, and it is filled with tumbling, wrestling, furry, biting creatures. Their bodies are a uniform dark brown, glistening with healthy sheen like a freshly eviscerated liver, but their heads lighten from neck to nose, ranging from ash grey to almost the same dark brown as their bodies. A much larger version of the creatures, presumably an adult, is tethered right outside the enclosure by a harness wrapped around its long, sinous body. Ignoring its leash, it stretches itself along the floor just outside the box and gnaws on a frozen carcass. There’s a sign saying “TEIRA CUBS: CHAMPION LINES, VERMIN KILLERS, PIT PROSPECTS, PETS AVAILABLE" leaning casually against the enclosure.

 

Perfect. She had observed Kraglin naming each of the little mites in his melior from the previous week, which suggests—perhaps he is simply lonely, and needs more contact than Nebula is used to providing. She knows from experience that she is not particularly good at providing such company, but perhaps… perhaps something like this will suffice. If not, well, despite her best efforts she has not been able to eradicate the current orloni infestation on board; theoretically, a creature like this might solve the problem. Nebula has very little experience with domestic animals, but she thinks she has seen creatures like this in orloni pits on some of the worlds she has visited. At the time, they had seemed like very efficient predators. She likes that.

 

She elbows Kraglin. “Kraglin.”

 

“Hm?” He jerks his head up, pausing his focus on the coat to scan the market quickly. Nebula rolls her eyes, internally: as if she would let a threat sneak up on or follow them. It is not as if she is _new_ to this.

 

“Those. What are they?”

 

He jerks to attention, squinting at the box. "Uh, those? Those're teira, like it says."

 

Nebula stares at him. She can _read_ , thank you very much.

 

Kraglin suppresses an eye roll and sighs. "They're what you'd call domestic animals? Bright, but not like you or me or anything. People keep ‘em as pets sometimes? Sometimes people run 'em in the orloni races, but they tend to be too good at catchin' em to put much sport in it." He looks pensive and then adds, “Pete had one for a while as a’ kid, used to terrify the cap’n somethin’ fierce when it’d skitter over his feet in the night huntin’ things or leave dead shit in his bed.” He winces, and Nebula inwardly curses and dives for another distraction.

 

“Why would people keep them as pets? Are they not good at their intended purpose?”

 

He shakes his head. “Nah, they’re vicious little buggers to vermin, but they’re smart and they like to be warm an’ shit, so they’ll sleep on crew’s feet at night if you let ‘em. Hard to keep out of anywhere you don’t want ‘em to be, so sometimes it’s easier to just give up an’ let them where they want to be if they’re on board.”

 

Well. This sounds _optimal._ “Good. They’re soft, right? He can clutch one and sob into _its_ fur, leaving Nebula out of the whole messy business. She nods firmly to herself and strides briskly towards the stallkeeper.

 

“How much one of for the cubs?”

 

The man blinks and looks up at her. “Urhhh—ehh—two hundred units, unless you want one of the breeding prospects.”

 

Nebula has no use for additional small animals. One will be plenty. She eyes the tumbling, gnawing, wrestling cubs and thinks. One, a smallish, dark-headed pup with an enormous white patch on its chest, seems particularly stubborn: it is only half the size of the largest, but it is fast and energetic and frequently reduces the larger pups to yelps as it gnaws their ears and skin with enthusiasm. It is plainer than many of its comrades, whose plush fur glints in the light of the late afternoon, but there’s something about the tenacity of the little furry thing that catches her attention.

 

She points to it. “That one. How much is that one?” The man eyes her. “Same as the rest, that one. Y’got a cleaning unit for it, or are you going to keep her in a kennel?”

 

Nebula stares at him. Behind her, Kraglin coughs. “You gotta have the special box for it, or it’ll shit wherever it pleases and no one’ll be happy. You sure you want to put up with somethin’ like that in your space? Animals like that, they’re never quite what you expect—might be easier to go back an’ buy an automated pestkilling system, if the orloni are buggin’ you that much.”

 

She doesn’t know how to explain that the wilfullness of the little furry creature is part of the appeal, so she doesn’t even try. “This seems more efficient. You’ve cared for one of these creatures before; figure out what to purchase from the man and call it good.” She picks up the odd little thing, inspecting it. It immediately tries to gnaw on her prosthetic hand, creeling in thwarted aggravation when its jaws meet unforgiving metal.

 

“Fair enough,” Kraglin sighs, but turns to the man and sets up an order for a quickly-figured set of items that, the man assures them, should set them up with everything the little creature will need. The asking price is apparently solid, because he only haggles a little for form’s sake before settling on the cost and turning back to Nebula, who is still inspecting her new purchase. “What are you going to call her?”

 

“Does it need a name?”

 

He stares at her. “ _Yes._ Ain’t right to have a living critter without a name, not if it’s going to be a part of your crew like that. And it’s bad luck to take one of them things on board if it’s _not_ gonna be part of the crew, so she needs a _name_.”

 

She sniffs. “You name it, then.” She’s acquiring the animal to keep _him_ busy, after all, and she unceremoniously deposits it into his scrambling hands before turning to return to her ship. There’s no reason to regret losing the touch of its soft, furry body or its pointy little claws, but she obscurely misses it as soon as it’s gone.

 

Kraglin glares at her, but doesn’t argue much. The cub burrows into his jumpsuit, worrying at the leather, but he discourages it easily enough and shifts it in his hands. He carries it all the way back to their M-ship, too, and his attention doesn’t shift once.

 

Perhaps this, Nebula thinks, will get his mind off of whatever has been distracting him so badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on this, I promise! It's just been.... a bit of a hectic week, that's all. And I keep picking up other projects. I'm still more than a touch in love with this one, though....
> 
> Tayra (E. barbara) are real Earth creatures that I've only filed the serial numbers off very slightly. They do indeed like plantains, and they're more like big, friendly weasels than anything else we have up here in North America. I am unreasonably fond of them: imagine terrestrial otters that like to climb things and are perhaps a touch more inquisitive than you expect, and you more or less have it.

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I will figure out how the AO3's chapter system works, and on that day I will probably pre-emptively explode. This story's been a whirlwind ride so far--slow writing or not--but I'm still very happy with it, I swear. 
> 
> As I'm editing these so that I have the right notes in the right places, this seems like a good place to announce: hey, I got a tumblr now! You can find me at [grison-in-space](https://grison-in-space.tumblr.com/), which is currently about 90% Guardians squee/extremely long squeeing meta with the odd chunk of fandom history. (If for some reason you want to hear about me going on about literally anything not specifically fannish, which currently includes my feelings about being a scientist, queerpolitik, trauma narratives, neurodiversity, and small acts of kindness, that shit is being hosted at [grison-in-labs](https://grison-in-labs.tumblr.com/). It will probably continue having those things in it.)


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